


Six points on a wheel of colour

by SharpestRose



Category: Lord of the Rings (2001 2002 2003)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-15
Updated: 2011-07-15
Packaged: 2017-10-21 10:10:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,306
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/224029
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SharpestRose/pseuds/SharpestRose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A Boromir-centric story of six moments in the Two Towers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Six points on a wheel of colour

**Author's Note:**

> Movie canon! Total and utterly shameless use of movie canon. So if that in itself is a squick for you, you can just run along now.

**1\. red**

And then, he was dying.

In a different place and some time later - though not very much later, by the measure of a life - a young woman would despair bitterly that she had not been allowed to die in battle. It is a difficult fate to endure, to be forced to live bravely rather than die so. Boromir had always considered himself to be capable of whichever of these two outcomes waited for him.

Now he could not help, under the crushing tide of pain wracking through his body, but be glad that it was the easier of the two he was facing. Sins are more easily forgiven to the dead, redemption found in a final and fatal show of courage.

Yes, better to die, when all was weighed and measured. There was a calmness seeping through his limbs, easing the push and stab of metal in flesh as he lost the feeling of his body.

Aragorn reached to pull one of the arrows from Boromir's chest, the fletch a sharp and splintered shape of shadow in Boromir's dimming vision.

"Leave it. It is over," Boromir said, marvelling that he could remember how to speak when air was all but forgotten to him. "The world of men will fall, and all will come to darkness, and my city to ruin." And, terribly, all that truth stirred within him was gladness that he would not have to see it for himself.

"I-" Aragorn began, and then he raised his head and seemed to gaze at something beyond the wood around them. His eyes closed for a moment, and when they opened there was new purpose in his voice. "Legolas, run to our camp and bring back the bag of herbs you find there." He turned to face Boromir once more. "The hands of the king are the hands of a healer. You will _not_ die this day, Boromir. The White City will not fall, nor our people fail."

"So you see your road at last." Boromir coughed and winced as the pain grew overwhelming once more, but smiled nonetheless. "I would have followed such a king as you shall be with the proudest of steps."

"You will yet, son of Gondor," Aragorn promised again, but any words he spoke thereafter were lost to Boromir as the world grew dark and silent.

 **2\. orange**

It was true enough that Boromir was nowhere near his full strength when he awoke, and it was true enough that Gimli didn't have the speed gifted to his longer-legged companions. Yet, when Aragorn directed that the four should break into two and two with only himself and Legolas pursuing the Uruk-Hai, it was not surprising that sense was discarded in favour of solidarity by Boromir and Gimli both.

The wounds themselves had closed within scant hours of Aragorn's ministrations, but the muscles underneath were torn and tender and there was at least one broken rib to turn running into an endurance almost beyond bearing. Still, Boromir would not suffer to be left behind. His debts were too large and his shame too great to let mere aches and pains stand in his way.

"You are not fit to travel at speed, nor to travel alone. Gimli will accompany you back Lorien, where you might rest and heal properly."

"Do you order me as a king?" Boromir asked in reply, not pausing in his sorting of provisions.

"No, I beseech you as a friend," Aragorn snapped. "Don't chase death down a second time because you cannot bear your guilt, Boromir."

Boromir placed his shield in the pile of things to be left behind, and for some reason that seemed to give Aragorn pause. Later - not very much later, by the measure of weeks - the two of them would discuss this moment of shifting futures and Aragorn would tell Boromir of an old hero who, at the darkest moment of an unwinnable battle, threw his shield aside so as to better fight his enemies with all the strength he had left.

"He knew morning would come again, even if he should never see it himself," Aragorn explained.

The horn, cloven by the bolt of the enemy, was left also. It felt strangely liberating to discard it; as if a great weight had been lifted from Boromir's weary shoulders.

And then they ran, over hill and plain and rock and grass. Aragorn found Pippin's brooch and Boromir's spirits lifted like the furl of a flag in sudden wind. The little ones were perhaps alive, a faint hope in a world gone dark.

Pippin especially had never had time for darkness, insisting that the company make a fire whenever it had been safe to do so. He'd loved the flicker and dance of the light, warm and gold-red on his face as he sat close.

Telling himself it was not the same as seeking an absolution, Boromir had to believe he could atone the wrong he had done Frodo. Perhaps some day he would see that brave halfling once again and offer what apology he could. If Merry and Pippin could not be saved then all the fellowship had set out to achieve would be for naught, for what light could the world have left to protect?

"The Uruks turned north-east. They are taking the hobbits to Isengard," Legolas observed when they paused to survey the land from an elevated outcrop. Gimli was panting with the exertion of their running, and Boromir felt as if his own lungs were caught in the grip of the cruellest of torturers.

"Can you carry on?" Aragorn asked.

"I shall speak up if I cannot continue," promised Boromir.

The horse-lords of the plains were oftentimes a short-spoken and gruff people to deal with, but Boromir had been raised by a father who somewhat skewed the definition of surliness in the Rohirrim's favour. When Eomer son of Eomund admitted that the hobbits were likely counted among the dead, however, it was hard for all four of the rescue party to contemplate. Surely it could not be true, not after all this.

And yet it seemed the darkest of outcomes to their chase was the reality, for there was the smouldering pyre of ash and filth that had once been the orc company. Legolas murmured in his lyrical and spare language, a quiet dirge for the fallen, and Aragorn kicked away a discarded helmet with a helpless cry of anger as he sank to his knees. Boromir, too, could not find the strength to stand, and wept bitterly for the small friends he had not protected well enough. The sandy soil under his palms was so unlike the rich green of the homeland Merry and Pippin had once described that it seemed unjust beyond any measure of the world for them to have ended their days here.

There was something unexpected about the quality of the ground's feel, though...

Aragorn's silence beside him confirmed Boromir's suspicion, and he cast his eyes across the dirt for a telling mark, a twig broken a particular way and a scuff where there should not be one.

"A hobbit lay here," Aragorn said quietly.

"And the other," agreed Boromir, tracing the trail up the lefthand side of the wrecked camp. "Their hands were bound, and they crawled."

"Their bonds were cut." Aragorn ran ahead now. "These tracks lead away from the battle."

Boromir looked up and took a very deep breath, despite the pain this caused. "Into Fangorn forest."

 **3\. yellow**

There was something about Eowyn which reminded Boromir so strongly of his brother that it was almost an ache. He had never been one to suffer homesickness, and yet to see the sad pale face of the young horsewoman as she spoke was to remember Faramir's own quiet melancholy keenly.

"And this, in turn, has given rise to the belief that there are no Dwarf women. And that Dwarves just spring out of holes in the ground!" Gimli said jovially, coaxing a merry laugh from the lady as Boromir watched them. It felt curious to be riding again, after so long on foot. His injuries from the battle at Amon Hen were all but memory now.

Aragorn, riding beside Boromir, laughed quietly as Gimli tumbled to the ground and was helped to his feet by Eowyn.

"She has a strong spirit in her," Aragorn mused, turning to see where Theoden rode in the long river of humanity trailing back into the distance. Rohan's king was perhaps twenty feet behind them, out of earshot. "I wonder if her uncle sees how deep her longing to be free runs, though I suspect he does not."

Aragorn had shared no confidence with Boromir since the betrayal of the fellowship, and to now have this small observation offered to him was a token which Boromir knew better than to take lightly.

"Yes. It is a heavy burden to bear, the weight of ancestry and a cheerless kingdom." With a sigh, Boromir watched as Eowyn smiled shyly at Aragorn. "Her heart does not choose wisely, though."

Aragorn turned from his own answering smile and shot Boromir a sharp look, but Boromir didn't flinch. His guilt, however lingering, was not sufficient to make him hold his tongue when his counsel was good.

"You have a love for her yourself?" asked Aragorn, ignoring the implied insult in Boromir's phrasing for the moment.

"As one does for a younger sister, perhaps." Boromir paused, then decided to speak his mind. "She reminds me of my little brother. They are both starved for the joy life depends on to thrive."

Aragorn nodded in agreement.

"She asked me about you, you know. Several times," Boromir said.

"And what did you say in response?"

"That you were a difficult man to know."

That earned a grin from Aragorn, and a small laugh.

Later - not a large amount later, by the measure of months - Boromir's brother and the daughter of Rohirrim kings would meet and risk a marriage together. Her heart had, it could be said, learned a little wisdom. But such things are difficult to know by any but those beyond the mortal world, and their opinion on the matter remains a point of conjecture.

 **4\. green**

Arwen wore weariness like an ill-fitting cloak, a shroud heavy on her shoulders and collecting dust around her feet with every step. Her exhaustion stirred up little ghosts of sun-speckled air, memories of times when the night had not been so long and dark.

She remembered sorrowful farewells, happy reunions, meetings made bittersweet by the thought that a parting must follow them. A conversation on a bridge, the gift of a small white charm to a brave and unsure lover. A moment of desperate defiance on a riverbank, a plea for the life and spirit of a little hero.

An evening in her father's lands, walking and humming to herself through the corridors of studies and libraries. She'd been thinking about a song from long ago, a lay about heros and enemies and desperate last choices and, humming to herself, had gone to find a book to read until morning.

The man from Gondor, skin and hair sun-goldened from his journeys, was sitting by one of the wide windows and looking down at the brook's weaving path through the woodlands. He glanced up as Arwen entered, rising from his chair in greeting.

"I heard your song as you approached. You give the melody a beauty I have never heard it bestowed with before."

"You are familiar with the tune?" Arwen asked, seating herself beside the man on the long padded bench. It ran the length of the wall, underneath the brightly-coloured hangings which framed the window.

"Only slightly. It is not often sung in Gondor now. I heard it when I was a young bratling." The man smiled with the words, self-deprecating and unconsciously charming in the small movement.

"I am Arwen, daughter of the lord of this house."

"Yes," he said. Then, after a pause, realising his answer was not the one she had been seeking, he flushed and spoke again. "I am Boromir of Gondor, son of the steward."

"Yes," she echoed him, smiling warmly.

"Your smile." Boromir's tone was one of enchantment. "You... you remind me of another I saw smile, once."

"Tell me of her?" Arwen asked. When he did not speak, she smiled again. "There are many hours until dawn, my lord, and I feel you shall not sleep before then. Talking is a good curative for an overabundance of time."

Later - though only a little later, by the measure of hours - Arwen would remember these words and ponder when it was she had begun to think of time as a thing to be spent. It was a perculiarly human attitude to harbour, though perhaps unsurprising in her situation.

"Her name was Dalianthe. I loved her - she was the first woman I had known in such a fashion, and she was much my senior. Her age was forty years to my fifteen, though it was not until my brother discovered our dalliance and commented upon our disparity in years that I even thought of it." Boromir had never spoken so freely with any soul upon first meeting, and certainly never said such things to a lady of such nobility in any circumstances. But there was something in Arwen's face so like that of his first love that he carried on, revealing those long-closed parts of his heart with the simple poetry of honest words. "She was so very wise, beyond any scholar from my childhood or counsellor from my father's entourage. And compassionate, near to a fault. When Faramir, my younger brother, said to me that I must be ill in the head for lying with one so plain in visage, I struck him about the head. I never had any feelings of violence towards him save for that moment, but I suppose he spoke the truth. She was no beauty."

Arwen did not answer right away when Boromir finished his tale, her chin tilted slightly up and to the left as she considered his words gravely. Then, she said "Thankyou. I am honoured to be compared to such a woman. I hope only that I am worthy of her legacy, in all its facets."

"I think somehow you could never inherit all her traits," Boromir said softly to himself, still gazing at her face with the wonder of one who has never seen a starlit sky before. Arwen smirked, one elegant eyebrow curving up in disbelief.

"You do not think I could be as wise or kind as she?"

"That is not what I meant, milady."

"What did you mean, then, Boromir of Gondor?" she asked, her voice like the silvered light water catches when flowing over rocks in sunshine.

"I did not mean to suggest that you are anything less than the most beautiful being I have ever seen." And as soon as he'd said it Boromir winced, and wondered what strange magic it was which made him speak his heart so freely. Perhaps it was an enchantment woven by the princess herself, a glamour to unloosen the tongue and cause acute embarrassment.

Boromir knew there'd been a reason he'd never trusted Elves. Pity he hadn't remembered it until now.

But Arwen did not laugh at his clumsy words, or speak haughtily in response. Rather, she shrugged, her smooth white shoulders rising and falling as she tilted her head to one side and seemed to examine his face.

"I have been told of my beauty before, and it puzzles me. The traits you spoke of earlier, compassion and wisdom - surely they are worthier prizes to find in a companion? Especially in your race, where beauty is so fleeting."

"Perhaps that it why we value it so. Such a thing would not mean much to one who has it evermore."

Boromir thought again of Dalianthe, the way her joints had pained her on cold mornings and the tough, cracked soles of her feet. Curious as the idea seemed, he knew that she would have hated to have the gift this maiden was blessed with. To live forever, perfect and unchanging and outside time.

"You are perceptive and wise," said Arwen. "And her feelings in the matter echo mine." Boromir started in surprise, wondering if tales of mind-reading among the Elven races were true.

"No," Arwen went on, which was the least convincing circumstance of denial since time began. "I cannot read your mind. It is simply perception, honed sharp with time."

"You say your feelings echo hers. Does this mean that you, likewise, would prefer the richness of a single lifetime to the serenity of forever?" The concept seemed almost unfathomable, Boromir had never even considered that Elves might view the race of Men as any more than slightly sophisticated beasts. To think one so fair and strange and alien could think that men had the _advantage_ over her own race seemed unlikely, and yet he didn't doubt Arwen's honesty for a moment.

Arwen's reply came after a pause, as if she was considering the question very seriously. Then, "Yes. I have said the same in other discussions, but I always consider it anew when faced with the query. It is such a large decision to make. You are lucky that you were born with it made for you."

"I was not aware that Elves could change their fates any more than Men could, in such matters."

"Ah, but I am not an ordinary Elf." Arwen's voice sounded suddenly distant, almost aloof, as if she had suddenly become aware of some unknown danger she was exposing herself to by having such a conversation. "I am sorry, I should not have burdened you with such thoughts."

"The apology should be mine, I did not mean to pry."

"I am not offended." Now, she smiled again, and rested one slim white hand atop Boromir's fingers. "I am glad to have talked with you, Boromir of Gondor. You should come walking among the trees with the lord Aragorn and myself some day while you are here; your thoughts are clever and heartfelt. If thousands of years observing the world has taught me nothing else, they have shown me what a precious rarity a good conversation is."

 **5\. blue**

 _Then I shall die as one of them..._

As the rain began, Aragorn's earlier words echoed in Boromir's thoughts. They reminded him of Arwen's quiet thoughful voice; the curious yearning in the choices of both future king and future queen. As if they were both shouting against the world at large, demanding the same fate as those they valued.

Yet neither could ever truly be 'one of them', for they were to be leaders and rulers always. A breed apart.

 _... where was Gondor..._

Theoden's bitter words, also, crept into Boromir's mind now as the Uruk army began to chant in a nightmarish rumble from the plains beyond the wall.

 _I would see Gondor noble and strong once more_ , Boromir thought sadly. _But it is no longer my duty to see to its future, that task lies with the King and his Queen._

And then the battle began, and there was no further chance for rumination.

Boromir was no stranger to sieges and attacks, nor to blood and injury, but Helm's Deep was such a skirmish as to linger in the memories of even the most hardened of fighters. The hours stretched, became heavy violent years of struggle against this impossible, unkillable enemy.

"Haldir!" Aragorn's shout of dismay broke through Boromir's fogged and fighting-focussed senses. The Elf, silvery hair blood-matted and tangled wild about his fair face, had been struck in the shoulder. As he whirled about in anticipation of future attacks, Haldir's eyes were wide with a panic so unlike the haughty serenity of his race that Boromir felt a sudden pang of worry and protection towards the ageless warrior.

It was, Boromir realised abruptly, because such a human expression on such an inhumanly lovely face was so like the look of Arwen Evenstar. At that same moment of realisation, Boromir knew that he could not help but risk his life to save such a creature.

As an Uruk-Hai behind Haldir raised a jagged, lethal-edged blade high and made to swing it down into the Elf's back, Boromir was there with his own dark-spattered sword to swing and cleave the beast's head from its body. Haldir, seeing what had happened, gave Boromir a curt nod of thanks and the pair of them retreated alongside the rest of the army.

The night wore on. And on. And on. And then there was nothing left to do but ride out, go down fighting with a sword held two-handed rather than hiding behind a shield when death was upon them.

And morning came again, and they were still alive. Later - though only a while later, by the measure of minutes - Boromir found a quiet place against an unbloodied section of wall, and winced at the pain in his chest, and allowed himself to close his eyes and sleep.

 **6\. violet**

"Boromir?"

"I am asleep, Aragorn. I cannot answer."

Boromir heard the chuckle, felt Aragorn sit down beside him. "I have yet to meet a man asleep who can answer questions put to him. You give yourself away."

"Now I understand the saying, then." Boromir opened his eyes, turning his head to look at the man next to him. The morning was not far gone, so he could not have been asleep for very long, and everyone seemed to be busy with vitally important tasks. Boromir could scarcely remember how to breathe and move his arms, let alone see to the damaged walls or collect the dead.

"And what saying would that be?"

"That the most burdensome sort of king is one who is also a wise man."

"It doesn't take much wisdom to know when someone's awake."

"You haven't met many kings," Boromir said with a smirk, resting his head back against the sun-warmed bricks and closing his eyes once again.

"Even the wisest cannot rule alone." Aragorn's tone sounded uncharacteristically lacking in certainty. Boromir opened his eyes once more, abandoning any hope of further sleep, and examined Aragorn's expression.

"The Lady Arwen will make a compassionate and intelligent consort. You will not lack for wise advice with her at your side... even, perhaps, when you would rather go without it. She shall be a Queen worthy of the greatest of lands. And I have no doubt in my heart that she would choose you even if you could promise nothing greater than a thatched hut and potato stew every night for the next hundred years."

Aragorn's smile returned at that, but when he spoke again his words were serious. "I speak also of advisors and chancellors, those closest in confidence to the king and queen. I have not met many men whom I would consider able to take on such a role."

"If they have any sense, they will leap at the chance to serve such a leader." Boromir's voice was grave, his gaze on Aragorn's steady. "Not one soldier, woman, or child now alive in this keep would be so but for your actions and guidance through the night."

Aragorn dipped his chin slightly in thanks at the compliment, then looked at Boromir as if waiting for the answer to a question. Starting in surprise, Boromir sat up straighter against the wall.

"Surely I mistake your meaning, my lord. You are not offering such a position to me, are you?"

"If it is not wanted, I more than understand your reasons. You were born and raised to guide Gondor's future, and if that is a fate you would rather be clean of then I wish you any happiness you might find in its place. But I can think of no man I would rather have at my hand."

Boromir blinked a few times. He considered pinching himself, to check if he was truly awake. "I betrayed your trust and that of those depending on me. When tested, I was found wanting."

Aragorn nodded. "Yes, you were," he said bluntly. Boromir's gaze dropped to his hands. Aragorn spoke again, his tone lighter. "But you have regained my trust, Boromir, and I doubt Frodo would still think you a traitor if he had seen your actions since that day." Aragorn paused, as if considering something. "Sam might... but it's a braver man than I who would risk injuring Frodo when Sam was nearby."

That made Boromir laugh, the amusement tinged with sorrow at the memory of last night's carnage and the dangers which the little hobbits must be facing on their own journey. "I hope we might see them once again, then. So I might seek to earn Sam's forgiveness."

"Stranger things have happened in this world before now," Aragorn answered. "But what say you, Boromir? Will you stand beside your king and queen and help bring glory to Gondor once more?"

"Yes," said Boromir. "I would be honoured to do so."

"Good." Aragorn's smile was exhausted but pleased. "I wouldn't have taken no for an answer, in all honesty."

"I would not have offered it."

"I am glad to hear that."

"Now, my king, I really must insist on having a little more sleep."

Aragorn nodded, patting Boromir's shoulder and standing up. "In that case, I leave you to that task."

The war of the ring was not yet over, and an end would come eventually no matter what the outcome. The curse and blessing of mortality, whether birthright or choice, meant that none among the high court of Gondor could look forward to forever.

But that ending would come later - a long time later, by the measure of moments.  



End file.
